


Hindsight

by LapisLazuli



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M, Romance, Very Minor References to Suicide and Drug Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:49:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/588088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LapisLazuli/pseuds/LapisLazuli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is seriously injured during a case. John is there to support him as he struggles to cope with the changes this injury causes to his life. Despite set-backs, this newfound level of intimacy gradually draws them even closer together, bringing their already close relationship to the next level.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was written for the August/September Johnlock Challenges Gift Exchange, for TheHauntedBoy, based on this prompt: Sherlock gets seriously injured on a case (like brain damage, memory loss, or any loss of function/control), and it is slowly starting to drive him mad. John is there through the ups and downs and then I dunno they get together at the end. Sex is always a plus. Any rating.
> 
> This was originally published on FF.net, but now that I have an AO3 account, I'm moving it over here.
> 
> Requisite Disclaimer: I do not own these characters, nor do I profit from the writing of this lovely stuff in any way. (This disclaimer will also apply to all subsequent chapters, in case you weren't sure.)

Dry cold air.  White halls, white sheets, white lights.  Muffled footsteps, quiet voices.  Awful scratchy sterile-smelling blankets.  Thin curtains hanging from plastic loops on elevated metal tracks.  Wires and tubes, twisting together and around each other, running everywhere.  The monotonous repetitive _beep beep beep_ of heartless machines, the constant reassuring _drip drip drip_ of life-giving fluids, the steady horrible _hiss hiss hiss_ of pumped air.  The form on the bed, just a long, narrow, nearly unidentifiable lump beneath the blankets and bandages, lying with disturbing stillness in the middle of the impersonal room.

Sitting in an uncomfortable hospital chair along one wall, John Watson leans forward to rest his elbows on his knees, drops his head into his hands, and scrapes his fingers through his hair.  He is dirty, disheveled, exhausted, his soiled clothes hanging stretched out and loose on his frame after so many days unchanged.  He draws a long, shuddering breath and releases it in a soft sigh, eyes squeezed tightly shut.  Raising his head, he opens his eyes and focuses his gaze on the form in the bed, steadfastly ignoring the equipment surrounding the cloth-swaddled body and focusing instead on the single dark curl of hair he can see peeking out of the tightly wrapped bandages.

Sighing again, John leans back in the chair, trying without success to find a comfortable position in which to rest.  He tips his head back against the wall behind him and allows his eyes to drift upward to the inset fluorescent lights, dimmed now, above the bed.  His mind drifts in his exhaustion, turning yet again to the event that had brought his world to its knees; reviewing everything that happened, holding each action up to the light and examining it for flaws, for alternatives, for any choices that he could have made differently that would have spared all _this_.  Despite promising himself over and over that he will stop, telling himself it is pointless, he keeps finding himself going through it again.  Better that, he knows, than thinking about what came after.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

They were working on a case that had started out fairly simply, a basic missing child situation.  John had not even been sure why Sherlock had accepted it, at first, as it seemed well below his usual standards for what constituted “interesting,” although John was grateful that he had.  Cases involving children always hit him hardest, and he was pleased that Sherlock took it on.  However, the case had evolved quickly into “interesting” territory as several more children came up missing.

Sherlock had deduced fairly quickly that the children were being sold into prostitution, but was not initially able to figure out who and where, which frustrated everyone.  Days passed with no progress, and John, Sherlock, and seemingly all of New Scotland Yard were increasingly on edge, waiting for a break.  John was anxious to rescue the children, Lestrade was anxious to finish the case, and Sherlock was anxious to find the answer to the puzzle.  And maybe that was why they had been so incautious later.

Finally, one day, in the middle of the night – or very early in the morning, to be completely accurate – Sherlock had burst into John’s room shouting, the door swinging wide and banging hard into the wall.  John leapt up, adrenaline slamming through him, and barely stopped himself from dropping and rolling for cover as he scrabbled at the waistband of his pajamas for a gun that was not there.  Several deep breaths later, John was throwing on clothes while Sherlock heckled and harassed him to move faster, and minutes after that they were out the door, on the way to some warehouse on the Thames that Sherlock was certain housed the headquarters of a child prostitution ring.

John managed to dash off a quick text to Lestrade as they rode in the cab, but like Sherlock he had no intention of waiting for the police.  Not for this, not when confronting men who sold children as sex objects.  John ground his teeth impatiently in the cab, willing it to move faster, to bring them to the warehouse right now.  His gun was a reassuring weight nestled in the small of his back.  Beside him, Sherlock twitched his leg in impatience, equally desperate to reach their destination, to know whether he had solved the puzzle correctly.

The cab had dropped them a few blocks from the warehouse, and they proceeded on foot.  When they reached the building, they circled it, Sherlock looking for evidence of the crimes they were investigating, John taking note of exits, windows, and vantage points, and both looking for signs of life within.  From outside, all was quiet.  So in they went.

Inside, the warehouse opened into a cavernous space, dark and cluttered with the cast-off detritus of expired commerce.  At the far end the space had been divided and subdivided into a warren of small rooms stretching up three stories, and the two men crept carefully toward that area, still alert for signs of the men they were pursuing.

As they entered the cramped hallways twisting between the smaller rooms, John heard muffled voices coming from deeper in the building.  He glanced briefly at Sherlock to confirm that he heard them too, and then both men moved forward, following the sounds.  Eventually they found themselves outside a splintery wooden door, shut tight but ill-fitting, framed in light from the room beyond.

Just as John was drawing his gun, bracing himself for whatever assault Sherlock might be planning, he heard a startled shout from behind him in a language he did not recognize.  He spun and leveled his weapon at the man in the hall, but already he knew it was too late.  The sudden chaotic burst of sounds from the other side of the door confirmed that they had been heard.  And then Sherlock, evidently deciding they had nothing to lose, kicked the door open.  And that was when all hell had broken loose.

From that point on, John retains only fragmented memories.  When he thinks about it, much later, he realizes that they reminded him of the types of memories he still carries with him from his time in combat during the war, just snippets and frozen images accompanied by intensely jolting blasts of emotion.

He remembers spinning back around in time to see the end of Sherlock’s coat disappearing into the brightly lit room.  The room itself swimming into focus as he jumps forward through the door, trying to catch up with his friend.  The sight of complicated equipment atop the rickety wooden tables lining the walls, several people jumping up, jumping back and turning to face them.  He remembers thinking _lab_ first, because after all his time with Sherlock the sight of chemicals and Bunsen burners and vials and beakers causes him to think _experiment_ when he should be thinking _dangerous_.  And then it clicks – this is a drug lab.  These people are making drugs here in this room, apparently in addition to kidnapping children and selling them into prostitution.  He remembers feeling his rage crank up another notch, and he is delighted that they have caught the bastards.

He remembers Sherlock, standing tall, surveying the room in his supercilious way.  He remembers the woman – or girl, really – standing directly across the room from him, the way that she jerks backward when Sherlock’s gazes sweeps across her.  The Bunsen burner, flame still ignited, tipping backward as she bumps it with her elbow.  The immediate conflagration that bursts out as the flame comes into contact with some of the other materials on the table.

He remembers Sherlock’s face, frozen in his mind, as he spins away from the fire, coat flaring out wide behind him.  He is yelling something, but John cannot remember what it was now, throwing himself toward the doorway where John still stands.  He remembers the jugs on the counter exploding, the air filled with glittering shards of broken glass and the acrid smell of chemicals.

And he remembers being knocked backward by the force of the explosion as he watches the shimmering cloud of glass fragments, chemical mist, and flame engulf his best friend.

Between there and the hospital, John does not remember much.  He knows, because he has been told, that Lestrade’s team was already arriving when the fire broke out.  That they were pulled out of the wreckage, himself more or less unharmed and Sherlock very nearly dead.  That they were rushed to the hospital, where Sherlock was immediately placed on life-support while John was examined, bandaged up, and permitted to leave.  And where he has remained ever since, still wearing his soot-stained clothes, waiting for Sherlock to wake up.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In his uncomfortable hospital chair John shifts around, still searching for a comfortable position as he rakes his thoughts once again over the jagged memories of that night.  He berates himself for the hundredth time for not waiting for Lestrade, for rushing in like a goddamned vigilante, for not holding Sherlock back just a little bit.  He knows it is futile, but he cannot seem to stop himself.  If only, if only, _if only_.

John lowers his eyes again to Sherlock’s still form on the bed in front of him, his gaze stuttering back and forth across the heavy bandages wrapping his features as his mind jumps forward to the meeting with Sherlock’s doctor.  Mycroft, as Sherlock’s only available family member, had allowed him to attend the meeting, for which he feels equal parts grateful and distraught.

Squeezing his eyes tightly closed, John allows his thoughts to turn to that horrible meeting.  He had known, of course, that Sherlock’s situation was bad.  As a doctor, he was aware of the severity of the injuries he sustained.  But as a friend, he had hoped that he was wrong, that he had misunderstood the situation, that Sherlock was really going to be fine.  The hospital doctor, with his kind eyes and his soft smile, had thoroughly and efficiently dashed all of John’s hopes with a few carefully chosen phrases.

So now John sits, and stews, and watches as a respirator breaths for his friend.  He looks at the bandages that conceal the burns that cover the once-beautiful face and listens to the sound of the heart monitor confirming that his friend will survive.  He thinks and thinks and thinks about what happened, berating himself for his behavior, his eagerness.  He very carefully does not consider what will happen when Sherlock wakes.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock has been taken off the respirator, and he is breathing steadily and comfortably on his own.  His face is wrapped, now, with lighter bandages, which are changed several times per day to clean and apply salve to his damaged skin.  His hair is growing back.  He is again identifiable, at first glance, as a human being, rather than a heap of blankets and gauze.

Mycroft had eventually convinced John to go home and rest, to change his clothes and clean himself up.  Sherlock was going to be in the hospital for weeks, after all, and John could only get so much rest sleeping sitting up in a chair.  John had done so, twisted with guilt the entire time, and rushed back to the hospital as soon as he had showered and grabbed a snack.  Being in the flat without Sherlock, surrounded with his things, practically steeped in his personality, was like torture for John.  He needed to be with him, _needed to_ , with an intensity that he could not entirely explain to himself.

Now, after several weeks and several more visits to the flat, John waits beside Sherlock’s bed, his heart in his throat.  Sherlock is healing nicely, and the burns and lung damage have recovered to the point that the doctors have decided to allow him to wake from the medically induced coma in which he has been resting up until now.  And of course John knows that patients do not wake up instantly when the medication is discontinued, but Sherlock consistently defies expectations, and so he waits, nervous and joyous and terrified, beside his friend.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Hours later, John’s head has slipped down until it is resting on the bed beside Sherlock’s arm.  His eyes are closed, his breathing deep and even.  On the bed, Sherlock stirs.  The uptick in his waking heart rate is announced by the beeping of the monitor, but John slumbers on peacefully beside him, unaware.

Sherlock twitches, first, as his consciousness comes creeping back.  He rolls his head from side to side.  The first thing he is aware of is pain, deep terrible burning pain in his face.  He draws a sharp, wincing breath, and feels a similar burning ache in his lungs.  He exhales with a groan, which comes out scratchy and breathy and almost inaudible.  He tries to bring a hand to his face, to touch and test the pain there, but the effort is too much and his hand falls back to the bed after moving only a short distance.

He tilts his head, intending to survey the room, although the sounds and smells have already told him that he is in a hospital, and suddenly becomes aware that he cannot see.  He makes a deliberate effort to open his eyes.  Nothing happens.  A slight feeling of concern starts to swell in his chest, and he again makes an effort to bring his hand to his face.  This time he is able to do so, and his fingers contact thick gauze which gives a little with a sliding squish as he presses it with his fingertips.  _Salve,_ he thinks.  _Burns, then._ The pain in his face flares up briefly at the soft pressure.

Sherlock carefully drops his hand, remaining as still as possible.  Unable to see due to the bandages, he takes a moment to deduce as much as he can about his environment using the senses at his disposal.  He is clearly in a hospital bed.  The sound of the heart monitor, the rough linens, and that unpleasantly antiseptic smell somehow shared by all hospitals make it obvious, never mind his bandages.

He listens harder, focusing intently on the more subtle, muffled sounds within and outside of the room.  He can hear long, slow, steady breathing nearby.  Not a roommate, he is sure, as it sounds much too close.  A little snort, a huff, and the breathing resumes its even pace.  Sherlock remains still, but in his head he is smiling.  John, of course.  _Fallen asleep waiting for me to wake.  Leaning on the bed.  How long have I been here?_

Outside the door of his room, he can hear hospital staff moving around, talking at full volume.  There is a clatter of wheels, a rattle of trays.  _So, it is not too late, and a meal is being served.  Which one?_   He listens more intently, straining to hear more.  The timbre of the voices outside the room, the nature of the conversations.  He can make out occasional words, “… wife will kill me if I’m late again tonight…”, “… going out for drinks after…”, and he then knows that it is dinner time.

He turns his attention to the sounds from outside the hospital, the rumble of motors and other city noises filtering in softly through the window he can detect in the wall behind the bed.  As he sets his mind to identifying the location of the hospital, the sound of the door opening intrudes into his thoughts.

Holding perfectly still, Sherlock listens carefully to the sound of footsteps entering the room.  _Not a doctor or a nurse_ , he thinks.  Medical staff would not attempt to walk softly.  And with John already in the room, the remaining options are limited.  _Mycroft, then._  Sherlock shifts a bit, already composing a scathing remark in his head, something about Mycroft bothering to come in the room when food is available outside, when Mycroft clears his throat.

“John,” he calls, his voice neutral, emotionless, neither loud nor quiet.  At his side, Sherlock feels John’s head shift and roll a bit.  “John,” Mycroft calls again.  There is a slight feeling of pressure lifted at his side as the mattress decompresses where John’s head was resting.

“Erh… Mycroft?” John’s voice is thick, hazy with sleep.  He clears his throat.

“Sherlock, I know you’re awake,” Mycroft says, ignoring John.  Sherlock hears John’s sharp intake of breath at this comment.

He opens his mouth to answer “how astute”, but his voice comes out as a rough unintelligible croak.  He chokes, involuntarily curling forward with the force of it, and sharp ripping pains tear through his lungs.  The pain makes him cough harder, which just hurts more.

After a few horrible moments, he is able to get ahold of his breathing and the coughing dies down.  He becomes aware of John’s voice, beside his head, murmuring softly.

“It’s ok, it’s ok, shh.  Don’t try to talk yet.  You’re ok.  We’re here, shh, calm down…”

Sherlock wants to make a harsh statement to John about how he is not a child in need of soothing, but he is not willing to try to talk again just yet.  Also, although he would never admit it, John’s soft tone, his presence and proximity, do help Sherlock feel a little bit calmer.  Just a bit.  Slowly, his breathing calms and he relaxes back into the bed.

“I’ll call the nurse for some ice chips.  You should be able to talk again once you’ve wet your throat,” John says, his voice sounding strained to Sherlock, artificially cheerful.  “Would you like to sit up?  I can raise the bed for you.”

Sherlock carefully composes himself, braced for the pain, before opening his mouth and croaking out a whispered “yes” in response to John’s question.  He waits, calmly, as he is raised into a sitting position by the bed’s motion.

“God, Sherlock, I’m so glad you’re awake…” John’s voice breaks a little here, and Sherlock wonders again exactly how long he has been here.  Quite a while, based on the deep fatigue in his limbs, the sticky sensitivity of his skin where it touches the bed.  _I must have been badly injured._

He hears Mycroft clear his throat from a few feet away.

“I, too, am pleased to see you awake,” Mycroft says.  Sherlock automatically stiffens, trying to keep his surprise at the sentiment from showing, before remembering that his face is covered in bandages.  _Very badly injured, then._   “And I’m sure you would like to know what is going on, so let us begin.”

Sherlock hears John draw in a deep, shaking breath.  _Afraid to talk about it._ Inside, his feeling of concern kicks up a few notches.

“Do you remember what happened?  With the child kidnapping case?  Just shake your head, ok?” John adds quickly when Sherlock opens his mouth to try to speak again.

_Child kidnapping._   In a moment, memories fill his head.  The warehouse, the drug lab.  Seeing the burner tip over, blue flames licking across an open jar of liquid, turning to run.  Then, nothing.

He nods his head, slowly.  At that moment, the door opens again.  Listening to the footsteps, he thinks _doctor_ just as John says “Doctor, he’s awake” in a professional voice.

“Excellent,” an unfamiliar voice responds.  “And how are you feeling, Mr. Holmes?”  Sherlock tries to exhale an exasperated huff, but the searing pain in his lungs reduces it to a barely audible breath instead.  _Why do doctors always feel the need to ask stupid questions?_

“Can we get him some ice?  He keeps trying to talk, but his throat is too dry,” John interjects, before he has a chance to try to answer the asinine question.

“You can try ice,” the doctor answers after a pause, “but that probably won’t be sufficient, after the lung damage he sustained.  It will just take a while before he can speak clearly again.”

Dimly, Sherlock hears John mumble some type of assent, but he is not paying attention, too focused on the doctor’s last comment.  _Lung damage… from what?  The chemicals_?  Burns and lung damage; there must have been an explosion, then.  He has to restrain himself from trying to touch his face again.  _How badly was I injured?  Am I injured?_

“Doctor, I’m glad you’re here,” Mycroft says, his voice suddenly urbane and pleasant now that he has an audience.  “We were just about to explain to him his condition, as well as the situation that lead to his injuries.”

“Are you sure that’s wise, so soon?” the doctor asks, concern lacing his tone.

Sherlock decides that he has had enough of being ignored, spoken about as if he is not in the room, and throws an elbow out sharply to the side.  It collides with the roll guard on the bed and makes a loud rattling noise, startling in the hush of the hospital room.

“Quite,” Mycroft answers, after the sound has faded.  His tone is amused.

“Ahem… right then.  Mr. Holmes,” and here Sherlock can tell that the doctor has turned to face him, is addressing him directly, “my name is Dr. Kehoe.  I’ll be your primary doctor during your recovery here.”  He pauses, then continues, his voice fainter as he turned to face someone else in the room.  “Maybe you had better tell him what happened, before we discuss his injuries.”

John clears his throat and then started to speak.  He is interrupted by the arrival of a nurse, bearing ice chips.  She brings them to Sherlock, taking care to place the cup in his hand, and quickly leaves the room.  Sherlock scoops out a few ice chips with his fingers and puts them in his mouth as John clears his throat again.

“You remember the case, the child kidnappings.  We went to that warehouse?  And we found the drug lab.  Something got knocked over, I guess, and there was an explosion.”  John pauses, collecting his thoughts.  Sherlock sucks on his ice chips, the cool slide of liquid down his throat at once soothing and painful.  If he could speak, he would make a sarcastic remark about John’s lack of eloquence and suggest that he rephrase before putting this in his blog.

“I was knocked back by the blast, so I didn’t see much, but I guess there were a lot of caustic chemicals in that room.  Muriatic acid, in particular.  They tell me that there wasn’t really that much fire, you know, relatively speaking, but the chemicals were all blown up, along with a whole bunch of glass.  You were out in the middle of the room when it hit, so you got it pretty bad.”  John’s voice breaks.

Sherlock attempts an experimental throat clearing into the silence that follows John’s brief speech.  It hurts, but not as bad as before, so he attempts to talk.  His first attempt comes out as a painful croak, but he swallows and tries again.

“How… how long?”

After a pause, it is Dr. Kehoe that answers.  “Just shy of three weeks.”

_Worse than I expected, then._ “Tell me.”  Sherlock waits, the little knot of fear in his chest twisting tighter.  He hears John sit back down in the chair beside his bed.  He feels a soft pressure on the mattress beside his hand, and realizes that John has placed his own hand beside Sherlock’s, not quite touching but close enough that he can take it if he wants to.  Inside, his fear ticks up a notch.

“You had acute respiratory distress, which is healing nicely now and should not result in lasting damage.  You were on a respirator for several weeks.  You suffered severe burns to the face and neck, a nasty combination of chemical and heat damage.  We had to do a skin graft.  You will heal, but you will have permanent scarring.”  Sherlock feels himself start to relax.  Facial scarring is not wonderful, certainly, but he does not really care.  His appearance is low on his list of priorities, after all.  And then the doctor continues.  “You caught a large piece of glass in your left eye.  It lacerated your optic nerve, and you will never have vision on that side again.  Your right eye was damaged by the burns, mainly from the acid, we believe.  It is theoretically possible that you may regain some sight on that side in time, but it is more likely that you will not.  I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but you are blind.”

Sherlock holds himself perfectly still.  His breath stops, and his hands are completely relaxed against his blankets.  His first thought is a denial.  _He did not just say blind.  He must have meant something else, someone else._ I _can’t be blind._   He waits for someone to say that it is a joke, a mistake, that he will be able to see as soon as the bandages are removed.  No one does.

Slowly, he draws a breath.  The action seems to trigger something, and suddenly he can hear the other occupants of the room shifting, breathing, moving slightly where they stand.  In his head, a small voice is steadily rising in volume, screaming over and over again _blind blind blind permanent and total loss of vision blind permanent blind total blind loss of vision blind_ until he cannot hear anything else but that.

With an effort, he wrenches his mind back to the hospital room.  He becomes aware that he is clutching the sheet tightly in his right hand, and John’s hand tightly in his left.  Carefully, he relaxes his hold on both, releasing them and laying his hands flat on the sheet over his legs instead.  He swallows.

“What about… case?” he manages to ask, his voice broken and whispery.

“What?” John sounds baffled.

“… found them?”

“You mean the kidnappers?  Jesus, Sherlock, really?  Yes, Lestrade was able to get the location of the kids out of one of the people they caught at the warehouse.  Most of the people in the room with you were… killed, though.”  John’s voice, which had started out strong and angry, is breaking again by the end.

Sherlock nods.  The silence stretches out, and he feels tired.  His mind is still screaming at him, and he does not have the energy to fight it back anymore.

“Tired,” he rasps out.  “Go away, want… sleep.”  He hears two sets of footsteps move toward the door.  John again.  He wants to roll his eyes, but thinking that fills him with a fresh swell of panic.  “You too, John.”

“Oh, OK,” John’s voice is soft as he scrapes his chair back and shuffles toward the door after Mycroft and Dr. Kehoe.  When he reaches the far side of the room, he pauses.  “I’m just… I’m really glad you’re back with us.  Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock gropes for the bed controls and, after some fumbling, lowers the bed back to the flat position.  Then he rolls on his side, curls up as much as he is able amongst the blankets, wires, and tubes, and lets his mind scream into the silence.


	2. Chapter 2

Another week of healing, and Sherlock has been released from the hospital and into John’s care.  He sits at the edge of the hospital bed, wearing a customary suit, while he waits for John to come get him.  His face is still bandaged, although less thoroughly now that he is healing up, and the stark white of the gauze contrasts sharply with the deep burgundy shirt and dark jacket and pants John had brought him to wear home.  His hair, irregularly short where it has been burnt off, is somewhat smoothed down around the bandages circling his head.

John pauses in the doorway of the room and looks at his friend.  He appears completely calm, entirely emotionless, just as he has every day since he woke up to his new reality.  They have not spoken of it at all, Sherlock blandly ignoring any of John’s weak attempts to discuss the situation and changing the subject whenever it came up.

Sherlock has, in fact, been acting nearly normal.  His voice is almost completely back, now, and with it his full repertoire of snarky comments and hostile remarks.  Mycroft has visited twice in the past week, and Sherlock wasted no time lighting into him as soon as he arrived on both occasions – maybe trying to make up for missed opportunities that first night, John thinks.  He pesters John, complaining of boredom and demanding that John find ways to entertain him.  He terrorizes the hospital staff, and has been through more nurses than John has ever seen with one patient, although Dr. Kehoe has proven to be remarkably resilient and fairly immune to Sherlock’s bad attitude.

However, despite all this, Sherlock is not the same.  He has carefully avoided talking to John about cases, about work, about any activity that might be impacted by his loss of vision.  He has not asked for his phone, not once, although John knows that Mycroft downloaded an app for him that reads typed letters aloud, so that he can text without looking, as well as one that reads incoming texts.  And, most tellingly of all, when Lestrade stopped in to visit, Sherlock did not ask him for a case.  In fact, Sherlock rolled on to his side and pouted, refusing to speak to Lestrade at all.  Neither John nor Lestrade had the heart to chastise him for this breech of social decorum.

And now it is time to return to the flat, to 221B, and try to pick up the ragged remnants of Sherlock’s life in the wake of this disaster.  John is frankly terrified.  He cannot even begin to imagine how Sherlock will function like this, without his eyesight.  Since he first heard the prognosis, John’s mind constantly conjures images of Sherlock despondent, crumbled beneath the all-consuming boredom, doing drugs again, hurting himself.

John takes a deep breath as he stands in the doorway watching Sherlock, and promises himself that he will not let it happen.  No matter what, he will make sure that Sherlock does not lose himself, his amazing wit and brilliance, just because he lost his eyesight.  John vows that he will not allow it.

“Are you just going to stand there forever?” Sherlock asks, startling him out of his thoughts.  “I mean, I’m sure it’s lovely here and all, but I for one would quite like to get home some time, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Right, sorry.  I was just making sure we’re not forgetting anything.  Looks like we’re good, so let’s go.”

Sherlock stands up from the edge of the bed and takes a slow, hesitant step toward John.  A pause, and then he takes another.  John takes a moment to remember that Sherlock is walking so slowly because he cannot see what is in front of him, and immediately feels stupid.  Despite knowing on an intellectual level that Sherlock has lost his vision, John still finds himself unconsciously expecting him to behave as he always has.  Shaking his head at himself, John steps forward until his is immediately in front of Sherlock, who stills.

“Here,” John cautiously takes one of Sherlock’s wrists and starts to move his hand onto John’s arm.  Sherlock jerks his hand out of John's grip immediately.

“I can do it myself,” he huffs out, irritated.  “I’m not an invalid.”

John pauses, mind racing.  This is his first challenge, then, and he has to handle it right.  How should he respond?  Should he just let Sherlock stumble and shuffle his gradual way out of the hospital, possibly trying to guide him with his voice?  Should he let him trip on things until he acknowledges that he needs help?  No, John thinks, this is Sherlock bloody Holmes.  The last thing he will want is solicitude, and he will absolutely kill himself before he will ever acknowledge that he needs help.

As Sherlock takes another small step forward, John grabs his wrist again in a much firmer grip, holding on as Sherlock tries to pull away again, and places Sherlock’s hand against his own elbow.

“No doubt you can do it yourself,” he says, “but it will take bloody forever, and I for one would quite like to get home some time, if it’s all the same to you.”

John holds his breath after delivering this little speech, watching Sherlock carefully even though he cannot make out much of his face through the bandages.  After a moment, Sherlock’s mouth curls up in the barest hint of a smile.

“Very well, lead on then,” he says and gestures imperiously with his other hand, for all the world as if he is doing John a favor by allowing him to help.  John allows himself a small smile as he turns toward the door and leads Sherlock from the hospital.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Mycroft’s car drops them off at the curb in front of their flat.  Fortunately, Mycroft himself did not accompany them, and John and Sherlock had the car to themselves.  The ride was spent in silence, as Sherlock listened carefully to every part of the drive, trying to commit each detail to memory.  If he is to rely on his hearing, now, instead of his vision, he has decided that he will make sure his knowledge of the sounds of the city is as detailed as he can make it.

Sherlock waits in the car until John disembarks, and then allows John to reach in and guide him from the car and onto the curb without complaint.  He hates, _hates_ that he needs help, but he would rather allow John to assist than to fall flat on his face on the sidewalk in front of Mycroft’s driver.  He is extremely grateful that Mycroft chose not to inflict his presence upon then during the ride home.  Being this weak in front of Mycroft is nearly unbearable, and Sherlock cannot stop himself from spewing vitriolic and hateful statements every time Mycroft is around, in a sort of preemptive defensive maneuver.

John lets go of his hand as soon as he is safely on the sidewalk, and Sherlock hears the jingle of his keys as he unlocks the front door.  He follows the sound of the keys toward the door, and is able to manage the two steps up without trouble.  His memory of 221B Baker Street is impeccable, and he has no concerns about being able to navigate the building and the flat.

Inside, Sherlock is pleased to note that John makes no move to take his hand again; John’s obvious confidence in his abilities is gratifying.  However, he has not taken more than a step toward the stairs when Mrs. Hudson’s door flies open with a bang and the lady herself is suddenly moving quickly down the hall toward him, voice raised and quavering with emotion.

“Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, you’re home!  Oh, John told me what happened, such a terrible thing, a terrible thing!”  She continues in this vein, practically yelling in his ear as Sherlock finds himself engulfed in a warm hug.  Mrs. Hudson smells of scones and tea, and her cheek is soft where it presses against his shoulder.  He takes just a moment to enjoy the embrace before he stiffens and draws back.

“Mrs. Hudson, please stop sniveling.  I’m fine, and your wailing is certainly not helping matters.”  Sherlock hears John whisper his name admonishingly, but ignores it.

“Right,” she says, sniffing a little bit.  “Well, it’s just good to see you.  Let me help you up the stairs.”  And she takes his hand, trying to pull him along toward the staircase.

Sherlock pulls his hand from hers decisively.  “Mrs. Hudson, I assure you that is not necessary.  I can certainly make it upstairs without assistance.”  His voice is frosty and distant.

“Oh, yes, of course dear,” Mrs. Hudson answers, sounding unsure of herself.  “I didn’t mean anything, I was just trying to help.”

“If you really want to help, why don’t you bring us up a plate of the scones you’re making, once they finish baking.  And some cream, as I’m sure we don’t have any.  We can provide our own jam,” Sherlock says, moving past her and toward the stairs.

“I will, dear, but only because you just got out of the hospital.  I’m not your housekeeper, you know.”  But Sherlock can tell from the sound of her voice that she is smiling as she says it.  He continues up the stairs, counting almost subconsciously until he reaches seventeen, and then turns toward the door of the flat that he can still see so clearly in his mind’s eye.

He enters, allowing his fingertips to trail across the doorframe to help orient himself correctly to the room.  He pictures it in his mind, all comfortable furniture and semi-organized clutter, Victorian wallpaper and delightfully bizarre décor, and a wave of bitterness rises in him so strongly that he momentarily cannot breathe.  Then he continues through the door, removing his jacket and turning to hang it on the coatrack.

He realizes that he will have to grope around for the coatrack and find an empty hook with his hands, and suddenly Sherlock feels completely defeated.  Shoulders slumping, he lets his arm fall, dropping the jacket on the ground, and turns back to the room.  With an almost normal stride he moves toward where his chair should be, taking care to check with his hand before flopping down into it.  And is suddenly glad he did, because the chair is not where he expects it to be.  He has to grope around a little bit before he finds it, several feet to the right of where he is standing.  Then he lowers himself into the chair, using more care that ne ordinarily would in case it unexpectedly moves again.  He brings his hands to his face, hating the feeling of the bandages there, and then lets his head loll back.

“Oi, just put that anywhere!” John gripes, entering the flat after wrapping up his tedious small talk downstairs with Mrs. Hudson.  Sherlock listens as John picks up the jacket and hangs it carefully, before continuing on through the room and into the kitchen.  “Tea, then?” John calls from the other room, already thunking two mugs onto the kitchen counter.  Sherlock does not answer, because he knows that John will provide him with tea regardless.

He concentrates on the sounds from the kitchen, cataloging each noise for future reference.  He already knows John’s stride, John’s breathing pattern, John’s subconscious little noises that he makes when he is concentrating, and had been able to recognize these for quite some time before the incident, as he now thinks of it.  But, although he has heard John make tea probably hundreds of times, he has never really _listened_ , not in the way he does now.  He hears a tiny squeak from the opening of a cabinet, the _shush_ sound of the tap running, the tick as John turns the kettle on, the rustle of tea bags being placed in mugs.  In his mind he can so clearly visualize the steps of this ritual that he has no trouble assigning each action its corresponding sound.  It is soothing, somehow.

Sherlock stretches his legs out in front of him and contemplates his situation.  In the hospital, his mind had been focused entirely on getting out, getting home, and he was able to ignore his condition much of the time in favor of focusing on mitigating his extreme boredom and insulting his nurses.  Now, though, he feels suddenly adrift.  He does not know what he is going to do, and that is possibly the most painful thought of all.

He needs his violin, he decides.  That is certainly something he can do without sight – he usually closes his eyes when he is playing anyway.  He gets up from the chair and inches across the room toward where the sofa should be, as the last place he left his violin was on the floor beside it.  His shin barks against the edge of the coffee table well before he expected to reach it, and he is glad he is moving slowly as pain flares up in his leg.  Using the coffee table as a guide, he scoots around until he reaches the sofa and then along it, to where his violin should be.

However, his questing grasp down the side of the sofa finds nothing.  No violin, no piles of old magazines, no pair of John’s old dirty discarded trainers, nothing.  Confused, he turns and reaches for the coffee table.  It is clear except for the telly remote.  No case files, no stacks of random loose papers and photos, no old mugs or completely pointless and unused coasters.

Sherlock feels an inexplicable rage rise in him, and he turns toward where the desk should be.  This time he moves quickly, and uses his hands on other furniture in the room to guide himself without considering how he looks, like a toddler learning to walk for the first time, like a _blind person_.  He reaches the desk and sweeps his palms across the surface.  All he finds are two laptop computers, cables and accessories, and a cup containing various writing implements.  Nothing else.  No papers, no dishes, no books or magazines or board games or notebooks.  Rage pulses in him again, hot and powerful and so, so welcome, after weeks of feeling nothing but disgust and bitterness and fear.

“John!” he shouts, standing tall beside the empty desk.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John is standing in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil and thinking about things that he can do to stop Sherlock being bored in the upcoming weeks, when he hears the sound of Sherlock moving around the living room.  He is glad that Sherlock is taking the time to get accustomed to navigating the flat with his condition.  John honestly had not expected Sherlock to do so yet, with him home and in the next room.  It seems like the kind of thing Sherlock would want privacy for.

The kettle clicks, and he is pouring hot water into the mugs on the counter when Sherlock shouts his name.  His tone of voice is sharp, angry, and John is puzzled.  He shrugs to himself, places the kettle on the counter, and goes into the room to see what Sherlock wants.

In the living room, Sherlock is standing beside their shared desk, the fingertips of one hand resting softly on the smooth surface.  His face is turned toward John, and his eyebrows, visible above the bandages, are drawn together in a scowl.  John clears his throat.

“Yeah, what?”

“Where are my things?” Sherlock asks, biting off each word viciously.

John drops his eyes to the desk again.  _Oh, right_.  “I cleaned up a little bit, while you were in the hospital.  Clearing up some of the clutter, you know.”  Sherlock’s scowl deepens, and John finds himself feeling uneasy.

“You cleaned.”  Sherlock’s voice is flat, hard.  “And where did you put them, my case files, my journals, my notes?  Did you shove them in a drawer somewhere?  Did you throw them out?  Did you,” and his voice is starting to rise, now, “think for one second that I had them arranged in a certain order, that I had them where they were for a reason?”  He is shouting by the end.

“What?” John is confused by the level of Sherlock’s ire, and getting angry himself.  “No, it didn’t occur to me that you had them in any kind of order,” he answers, his own voice a little too loud for the room.  “I’ve seen you drop your notes on the floor and tread on them!  I’ve found them behind the toilet!  You don’t pay any attention to where they are at all.  And let me tell you, organizing this mess took bloody forever.  I thought you’d be pleased!”

Sherlock is clearly not pleased.  “What ridiculous notion possibly possessed your tiny little mind, that you think I would want you to get rid of my things?”

“I didn’t get rid of anything!  Honestly, no matter what you think of me, I know better than that.  I just sorted them and put them away.”

“Away where?”

John gestures to the bookshelves, and then remembers that Sherlock cannot see him.  He clears his throat again, embarrassed.  “Case files and crime scene photos are on the shelves behind your chair, journals and notes on the shelves behind mine.  I tried to organize them, a little, when I could.  Grouped by case, in chronological order left to right and top to bottom.”  It really had taken a long time, and he had felt a little bit proud of himself for successfully imposing even that much order on the chaos.

“Yes, and no doubt you did a stellar job with that,” Sherlock responds, clearly still furious.  “Really, John, what were you thinking?  How could you do something so stupid?”  He spits out the last word with venom, and something in John snaps.

“Because I needed to do _something_ , ok?!” he shouts.  “You were unconscious, on a goddamn respirator, and they told us about your… ” even furious, it’s so very hard to say it out loud, “… your eyes, and I couldn’t fucking sit there for one more second and think about how I should have stopped you, or been in front of you, or done _something_ else to prevent what happened, and I was fine and you were so badly hurt and I just needed to do something!”  John’s shoulders slump and he looks at the floor.  All his rage runs out like someone pulled the plug, his voice dropping to a rough low tone.  “So I looked online, and I found a website that said that it would be helpful for you if everything was organized, put away in a specific spot so you would always know where to get it, and I thought that made sense, would make things easier when you finally woke up and came home… so I did it.”

He takes a deep breath and risks looking up at Sherlock.  Sherlock is still standing by the desk, still anchored by his fingertips, but his posture is softer, his shoulders hunched up just a little bit, his head lowered.

“John, I…” Sherlock stops and clears his throat, then starts again, his voice soft.  “I see what you were trying to do, but it’s just that… I knew where everything was, before.  Even the notes in the bathroom.”  He falls silent, and then, in the smallest voice John has ever heard him use, he says, “how am I supposed to find anything now?”  He makes a tiny upward gesture with his hand, the barest acknowledgement of the bandages covering his now-useless eyes, and then falls still.

Across the room, John is frozen, unable to answer, unable to move.  This is the first time they have come close to talking about Sherlock’s new limitations, and it feels horrible.  He has absolutely no idea what to say.

After several moments of silence, Sherlock shifts, turns until his back is to John and he is facing the window he cannot see.  “Will you please hand me my violin?” he asks, still in that awful small voice.  John shakes himself and silently goes to get it.

“I put it on the mantle, next to the skull,” he says as he hands the violin to Sherlock.  Sherlock does not reply, just brings the violin up to his chin and starts to play.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Two days later, Sherlock is bored.  Bored, bored, _bored_!  He is draped across the sofa in his dressing gown, head over the arm at one end and feet pressed up against the other, his fingers laced together and hands resting on his belly.  And woefully, tragically bored.

He shouts it out loud, just in case it helps.

“Bored!”

“Yes, right, I heard you the first ten times,” comes John’s voice from the kitchen.  “Why don’t you turn on the telly or something?”

“One can only listen to so much crap telly before it loses its entertainment value, which was frankly pretty meager in the first place” Sherlock answers, rolling onto his side and angling his head toward John.  “Entertain me.”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry you’re bored, but I can’t do anything about it right now.  I’m cooking dinner.”

“I don’t care,” Sherlock says petulantly.  “I’m bored, and there’s nothing else to do.”  He is tired of playing the violin, tired of crap telly, tired of listening to his mind chase itself in circles while he sits, trapped, in the darkness.  And though he is making light of it to John, he is a little bit afraid of where this might be going.

This bored, only two days in.  Nothing to think about except how miserable he is, nothing to do and no prospect of anything arising any time soon.  When he allows himself to think about the future, all he can imagine is a long dark stretch of flat grey nothing, until his mind starts to tear itself apart and he is compelled to stop it, one way or the other.  Until the only options left are drugs or… a more permanent solution.  He has been there before, barely made it through, and back then he could still see.  The only thing that saved him at the time was the chase, the hunt, the puzzle of solving those deliciously difficult crimes that baffled the police.  And now, he does not even have that.  The idea terrifies him, and so he antagonizes John.  At least then he will have some distraction, inadequate though it might be.

“John, I’m _bored_!” he shouts again.  This time there is no answer from the kitchen, although he imagines that he can hear John rolling his eyes.  He gropes around the surface of the coffee table beside him until his fingers collide with a ceramic surface – a tea mug.  Perfect.  He collects it and continues his search until he has gathered three mugs, the remote control, and two of those inexplicable and pointless drink coasters John insists on keeping.

The first mug crashes into the floor, accompanied by a shout of “Bored!”  There is a sloshing sound of liquid as the remaining dregs of the tea splash across the floor.  Sherlock hears a bitten-off exclamation from the kitchen, and he smirks.  The second mug follows the first and there is a loud clink as it collides with its sibling when it reaches the ground.  “Bored!” Sherlock shouts again.  He can hear John walking swiftly across the room toward him now.  His smile widens.  He picks up both coasters and throws them like Frisbees in John’s general direction, grinning in delight when John says “Oi!” as one glances off his leg.  Then John is there, taking the remaining mug and the telly remote out of his hands with a growl.

“You are very lucky that none of these is my RAMC mug, Sherlock,” John says, his voice low and ominous as he bends to clean up the small tea spill and the two chipped mugs.  “I would have had to hurt you, if you broke that mug by acting like a child.”

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” Sherlock responds, waving one hand disparagingly as he flops back onto the couch.  “Your RAMC mug is half an ounce lighter than these mugs, and has a thinner handle.  But now that you’re here, entertain me.”

“I am not your personal entertainment system, Sherlock.  Why don’t you… I don’t know… read something?” John asks in exasperation.

Sherlock goes still, John’s words sending a cold wave of despair through him immediately.  It is unlike John to casually forget his condition and thoughtlessly reference a visual task like that.

“I can’t,” he answers in a tight voice.

“Oh, honestly,” John responds.  Sherlock is expecting him to sound sad, contrite in response to Sherlock’s obvious distress, but he still sounds exasperated.  “You have heard of Braille, yes?  Come on, genius, it won’t take you more than a few days to learn it.  They already print Braille copies of all of your books and most of your favorite journals, and I’m sure we could figure out a way to get any others translated.”

Sherlock sits bolt upright on the couch at John’s words.  Braille!  Yes!  _How did I not think of that?  Maybe the explosion did more damage to my mind than I thought._ But this, yes, this is wonderful!  Now he can pass the time learning, studying, gathering new information.  So much better than crap telly.

“John, what a fantastic idea!” he announces, feeling almost hopeful for the first time since he awoke to darkness in the hospital.  “Get me some books on learning Braille immediately!  Go, now, right this second!”

When he does not hear John moving toward the door instantly, he stands and grasps toward where John should be standing based on where he last heard him.  His fingertips contact soft knit jumper material and he slides his hands along the ridges of John’s shoulders until he can grasp them firmly.  Impulsively, without really thinking about it, he draws John close, throws one arm around his back, and gives a little squeeze while mumbling “Braille, of course, yes.”  Then he pushes John back, uses his grip on John’s shoulders to turn him around, and gives him a solid shove toward the door of the flat.

“Now, John, go now!”

“What was… alright, can you just hang on?” John answers.  His voice sounds funny to Sherlock, a little shaky, his tone lacking the usual bite he employs when Sherlock is being bossy.  Sherlock hears his footsteps recede, not toward the coat rack and the door, but toward the kitchen.

There is a rustling sound of plastic, and John comes back into the living room.  Sherlock feels something hard poke him in the chest, and he reaches out and grabs the object that John is jabbing him with.  It is a book, the cover textured with a sequence of small raised bumps.

“Got it when I was out earlier, in case you wanted to give it a try,” John says.  “It’s an advanced primer on learning Braille.  I figured the beginner one would be too easy for you.”  Sherlock can perfectly imagine the expression on John’s face, the little self-satisfied smile, the shy gaze up through his lashes as he waits for Sherlock to respond.  For just a brief second he feels an overwhelming sadness that he will not be able to see that expression on John’s face ever again, but then his excitement at finally having something to do asserts itself and he grins widely.

“John, you are a marvel!”  Then the weight in Sherlock’s hands increases noticeably as John rests a second book on top of the first.

“I also got you a Braille copy of a Chemistry textbook they had.  It’s called _Elements of Physiological Blood-Gas Chemistry_.  Something to practice on when you finish the primer.”

Sherlock laughs aloud as he reaches his arm out and squeezes John’s shoulders a second time.  He feels John’s shoulders shaking beneath the soft comfort of his jumper as he laughs as well, his delightful high-pitched giggle floating out into the room.  Sherlock tips his head down until his forehead is resting against the side of John’s head.  He draws a breath through his nose, enjoying the warm, comforting smell of tea and clove and musk and _John_ that fills his lungs.  On his exhale, he quietly whispers “thank you.”

John goes completely still as Sherlock’s warm breath drifts down the side of his face.  After a pause, he whispers back a “you’re welcome” just as softly.

Then Sherlock releases him, spinning back to the sofa with his books.  He drops onto the cushions like a bag of rocks, drawing his knees up in front of him, opening the primer to the first page, and dragging his fingertips across the first line of bumps.  Sherlock is so immersed in the Braille book that he does not register the sound of John’s soft, almost nonexistent sigh, or the tread of his footsteps as he returns to the kitchen to finish cooking dinner.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John lies in his bed, idly looking at the sunlight streaming in through his window but not really seeing it, letting his mind wander.  He is having a bit of a lie in, with nothing in particular that needs doing today.  He feels that he deserves a nice relaxing morning anyway, and he is feeling pretty chuffed with himself at the moment as he thinks about the past week with Sherlock.  His suggestion of learning to read Braille was met with more enthusiasm than he ever expected, resulting in two surprise hugs and a noticeable reduction in the amount of complaining coming from Sherlock.  It had taken him less than two days to become a fluent reader of Braille, and from there a whole host of options had opened up.

First, Sherlock had ordered (or, more accurately, had John order) a Braille copy of every book he currently had in his library.  Then they had ordered Braille versions of every academic, scientific, and medical journal available, which turned out to be fewer than John had hoped.  Sherlock had dictated a scathing letter criticizing each of the journals that were not available in Braille for their poor judgment and lack of consideration.  John had dutifully typed the letter as Sherlock spoke, carefully composed an email to each of the institutions that had earned Sherlock’s ire, attached the letter, and then clicked “save” instead of “send”.  He had no intention of actually sending such a letter from his own email address, but Sherlock would notice if he did not at least pretend to do so.

The next step was getting Sherlock’s existing written documents, his experimental notes and such, translated into Braille.  Sherlock’s suggestion, that John get a Braille typewriter and just retype all the documents himself, was vetoed by John on the grounds that it would take bloody forever (although they did agree to get a Braille typewriter anyway, for Sherlock to use).  Instead, he suggested that they find a translating service and hire a professional.  Sherlock had lost interest in the process fairly quickly after that, just flapping his hands at John and demanding that he get it taken care of before returning to his reading, so John began the hunt himself.  What he learned was that finding someone willing to take on the tedious project was more challenging than expected, and finding someone willing to do so for a reasonable fee was damn near impossible.  After hours of fruitless searching, John had finally broken down and called Mycroft, retreating to his room and whispering into his phone like a grounded teenager in an attempt to avoid letting Sherlock know what he was doing.  Mycroft, of course, was able to offer his immediate assistance.

John boxed up all the documents that Sherlock wanted translated, under Sherlock’s somewhat neurotic direction, and carted the boxes ( _box_ es _, plural, and honestly, how did Sherlock have that many notes?  What was the point of the mind palace when he wrote every bloody thing down anyway?_ ) downstairs to deliver to a nondescript man driving a boring beige sedan.  Boxes containing binders of neatly bound translated notes were delivered later that same day by a different, equally nondescript man in a different boring sedan, blue this time.

As soon as the notes were returned so quickly, Sherlock knew that Mycroft was involved.  He had not spoken to John for the remainder of the day, but by the next day he started talking to John excitedly about an article he had just read in one of the journals regarding recent developments in toxic mould spores, and John knew he was forgiven.

That day, copies of the journals that were not available in Braille appeared on their doorstep, in Braille.  Sherlock huffed and shrugged and grumbled about Mycroft’s interfering, but later John saw him discretely trailing one finger across the pages of one of the journals while pretending to listen to the telly.  He just smiled and did not comment.

John had purchased a Braille label maker, and he and Sherlock had spent one entire morning reorganizing the now-translated notes, journals, and books and creating labels for them, so that Sherlock could easily find them.  Afterwards, John had to resist the urge to go around the flat labeling everything.  He knew that Sherlock knew where most things were without labels and would not thank him for the gesture, but there was something so innocently delightful about labeling things that John wanted to do it anyway.  He did give in and label two shelves in the refrigerator “Food Only”, but he was under no delusion that Sherlock would adhere to the suggestion.

But the best idea John had had, which he arranged through Lestrade and Mycroft during a quick barrage of hasty phone calls and texts while Sherlock was taking a shower, was to get Braille copies of a few cold cases from Scotland Yard for Sherlock to work on.  Of course, there was nothing they could do about the photographs, but John decided that he would have to do his best to describe them to Sherlock and simply tolerate the inevitable slandering of his perception and intelligence that would accompany the attempts.  If it would help Sherlock feel like himself again, John would do so happily.

The translated files were delivered yesterday, but John has not given them to Sherlock yet.  When they arrived Sherlock had been engrossed in a monograph on the effects of certain rare poisons on the human nervous system, so John decided to save them.  He wants to present them to Sherlock as a surprise, a gift.  He wants to save them for a special moment, to see the delight on his friend’s face, to maybe elicit another spontaneous hug.

Lying in bed, duvet draped haphazardly across his barely-clad form, John finds himself flushing at the thought of Sherlock giving him another hug, and then flushing further when he realizes that he is hoping for it.  His mind stutters for a moment before he can rationalize that he is simply pleased to see his best friend so happy, especially given the circumstances, and that he enjoys expressions of that happiness in all their forms.  His blush recedes a bit at this explanation, and he takes a moment to anticipate Sherlock’s reaction to the translated case files with a happy glow.

A loud crashing sound from downstairs interrupts his contemplation, followed by a series of smaller crashes and clangs that sound distinctly like someone is throwing dishes around.  Equal parts concerned and annoyed, John rolls himself out of bed and throws a robe over the boxers he slept in before hastening down the stairs to see what is going on.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock wakes early from a nightmare.  It falls away from him in ragged tatters of confused recollection as soon as he wakes, and all he can remember is fire and yelling and John.  In his dreams, he can still see, and he dreams in pictures and images just as he always has.  The experience is simultaneously terrible and wonderful, and he cannot decide if he wants to sleep more to experience it more often, or never sleep again so that he never again has to wake up to bleak reality.

Disturbed by the residual emotions from his nightmare and flooded with the bitterness and resentment that twists within him during all of his waking hours lately, Sherlock sits up on the sofa where he slept and rubs his hands across his face.

The bandages have been removed, now, and he has even been given permission (and his mouth twists bitterly at the thought of _that_ ) by his doctor to stop wearing the protective eye patches.  His face, in all its ruined glory, is bare for the world to see, although at this point the world consists entirely of John and Mrs. Hudson, as Sherlock has not left the flat once since returning from the hospital.  He cannot see how it looks, of course, but his fingertips tell him that the skin on the right side of his face is puckered and rippled and still very tender, especially where it stretches over his cheekbone and right around his eye.  The eyelid on that side feels weird as well, smooth and tight at the corners, without much give, but he can move it and blink enough to keep his eye moist, so that’s good enough.  The other side of his face is peppered with small laceration scars from the glass shrapnel that pierced him, but is otherwise undamaged.  If not for the unlucky placement of one large chunk of flying glass, he would still have vision at least in one eye, although he tries not to let that thought intrude too often.  Might-have-beens are illogical, but sometimes that one sneaks into his mind anyway.

He feels antsy, emotional from his dream, tired of being cooped up in the flat for so long even though his house arrest is self-imposed.  He drags his hands through his hair and stands up, moving into the kitchen to make himself some tea.  His hair is just starting to grow out again now, after Mrs. Hudson trimmed it down to even for him when he first got home from the hospital.  He misses the feeling of his silky curls sliding through his fingers, and scrubs his hands back and forth across his scalp a few times before dropping them to his sides.

He moves confidently into the kitchen, weaving around and between the furniture in the flat without conscious thought.  It is simple, now, although initially it was not so easy.  Despite his familiarity with the space of his flat, the first few days were difficult.  He kept colliding with things when he expected them to still be a ways off, or finding himself a good distance to one side or the other of his destination when he was sure he had been going in the correct direction.  Somehow, all of his spatial expectations were skewed, and as a result he had to move cautiously, reach out blindly and pat on surfaces for guidance.  How he hated it.

Now, however, after practice, he can move smoothly and easily around the flat.  He has adjusted his spatial perceptions, and can unerringly travel through each room with the same speed, precision, and confidence that he demonstrated before the accident.  _Wonderful.  As long as I never leave the flat, I’m golden._

In the kitchen, he moves quickly to the cabinet that usually houses the mugs and opens it.  He reaches in, but no smooth ceramic surfaces meet his questing hand.  Frustrated, he reaches further in, and his fingers jam hard against the back of the empty cabinet.

Grumbling, Sherlock lowers both hands to the countertop.  He slowly moves his hands around, hovering just above the surface, cataloging the objects he encounters in his mind.  Finding no mugs, he moves slowly along the counter until he reaches the sink and tries again.  After several moments of groping around, during which his frustration starts to build, he finally finds a small collection of mugs in the sink.  He picks one up and sniffs it.  It smells like tea.

Sherlock exhales loudly in frustration and reaches for the taps, turning on both as he upends the dirty mug over the sink.  He fumbles for a sponge, knocking it off the back of the sink in the process.  It falls into the sink, landing in a bowl filled with cold dirty water with a wet _splat_ , and Sherlock feels little droplets of the cold water spatter across his shirt.  He grabs the sponge, squeezes it with more force than necessary, and holds it under the running water for a moment.  Then he wipes at the mug in his hand with the sponge and rinses it out.

Sherlock turns off the water and runs his hands along the counter again until he finds a tea towel.  He pulls it up and hears several objects _plate, knife, wooden cutting board_ tumble off the tea towel as it moves.  Ignoring these, he wipes the mug dry and sets it back on the counter.

He moves to the electric kettle, fortunately placed exactly where he expected it, and gives it a little shake.  It is light, empty, so he adds some water before switching it on.  While the water heats, he moves to find the tea bags.

He has not made tea for himself in quite a while, and he has only the vaguest notion of where John stores the tea bags.  He opens the cabinet he thinks is correct, one from which he has long been banned from housing any experiment supplies, and reaches in, fingers quickly flicking across the contents of the bottom shelf.  He identifies a box of salt, a bowl of sugar with no lid, various small bottles of liquid in shapes that suggest sauces and oils and vinegars, but no tea.  He pulls out the sugar bowl and sets it aside before continuing his search.

On the next shelf, he finds boxes of biscuits, digestives and Jaffa cakes, a bag of crisps, but still no tea.  Getting quite annoyed now, he stops and takes a deep breath in an effort to calm himself down.  _There has to be a better way to go about this_.  After a moment of thought he leans his head in toward the cabinet and sniffs in a long breath through his nose, seeking the scent of tea.

The first cabinet smells strongly of vinegar, less strongly of sweet biscuits, with no hint of tea.  He opens another and tries again.  A powerful smell of mould and decay greets him.  Not in there, then.  Another.  Jam, this time, and chocolate, and bread, and on top of it a strong smell of tea.  John’s breakfast supplies.  _Finally._   He narrows down the location further with his nose before reaching out and grabbing a lightweight box of tea bags.

Withdrawing one bag, he unwraps it and moves to drop it in his mug.  He cannot remember exactly where he placed the mug, somewhere near the sink, and has to feel about for it again.  In his annoyance he moves too quickly and the side of his hand collides with the mug, knocking it back into the sink of dirty dishes and standing water with a crash.

Sherlock drops the tea bag and rests both of his hands on the kitchen counter, breathing hard and fast through his nose.  Rage rises in him, that he cannot complete this incredibly simple task, that everything has to be so damned _difficult_.  He is struggling, working to keep himself under control, to calm himself down, when he hears the electric kettle click behind him.

And suddenly, it is too much.

He turns and grabs the kettle, ripping the cord out of the wall with one hand, and hurls it across the kitchen.  The kettle collides with a counter full of objects on the other side of the room with a satisfyingly loud crashing noise, and the scalding hot water splashes up the wall and runs down the cabinets as casualties from the collision clatter to the floor.  He turns back to the sink and grabs a random dish, a plate, turning again to throw it after the kettle, reveling in the smashing sound of breaking pottery.

Dish after dish flies across the kitchen, as Sherlock grunts and pants with rage.  The feel of it, the weight of the dishes in his hand, the sound of them shattering, fills him with a fierce joy, and for a moment he wants to keep going, keep destroying, until he has broken everything in the flat, in the building, in the world.  And then, just as he cocks his arm back to throw another mug, his brain takes note of the object in his hand.  The weight of it, slightly lighter than the other mugs, the handle a bit thinner than normal.  It is John’s RAMC mug.

And that quickly, all of the rage drains out of Sherlock.  Spent, gasping for breath, he clutches John’s mug to his chest and leans back against the counter.  Slowly, his knees bend and his back slides across the edge of the counter and down the cabinet door, until he is sitting on the kitchen floor, knees drawn up to his chest, still holding John’s mug with both hands.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John comes down the stairs and through the kitchen door, mouth already open to shout some kind of reprimand at Sherlock for breaking the dishes.  What he sees, though, stops him in his tracks.

Sherlock is sitting on the floor, back against a cabinet and knees drawn up to his chest.  His head is hanging down, his hair not long enough now to conceal the sight of his raw, pink, injured skin from John at this angle.  His shoulders are slumped, hands pressing something against his chest, breath loud and harsh in the sudden stillness of the kitchen.  He looks… broken.

To his left, directly across the room from where Sherlock is slumped, broken crockery is scattered, along with a mess of random things that clearly fell off the counter, Petri dishes and spatulas and a tin of biscuits.  The electric kettle lies on its side in the center of the mess, and there is water everywhere.

“Sherlock, what happened?” John asks, struggling to keep his voice even.

Sherlock says nothing, just shrugs.  Then he tips his head up until it is resting back against the cabinet door behind him and takes a deep breath.  His healing wounds are still a livid pink, the skin stretched and puckered across the planes of his face; they look extremely painful to John.  The eyelid on that side has a runny, melty look that John has seen before in burn victims, making his eye look droopy and perpetually part-way closed.  However, John has seen enough people recover from burns during his time in the army, some far more severe than what Sherlock has suffered, to know that once the skin has completely healed, in a year or more, most of the discoloration and unusual texture will fade.  It is likely that Sherlock’s face will look almost the same as it did before, except with slightly discolored light pink blotches on one cheek, and probably a squinty eyelid.

His eyes, however, are startling.  He will not wear his patches, and John has had no luck convincing him that it would be a good idea to keep them on since the doctor told him that technically he can remove them.

His left eye, which had caught the piece of glass, looks almost normal.  The glass had pierced the eye and passed almost completely through, the jagged sharp edge entering along one side of his iris and ultimately lacerating his retina, directly across the optic nerve.  If it had landed almost anywhere else, Sherlock would likely still have some vision on that side, but the damage to the optic nerve could not be repaired – John had worked with another doctor in Afghanistan who had jokingly referred to that specifically injury, occasionally seen resulting from shrapnel damage, as a bullseye.  Sherlock’s doctors had removed the glass and stitched the eye closed, and now it looks almost unchanged, a dark vertical sliver across the side of the iris the only visible evidence of the trauma.

His right eye, which had sustained the chemical burn, does not look normal.  The formerly white part of that eye is now an angry red color, with a pearly white sheen across the iris and pupil.  The contrast between the red of the eyeball and the opalescent slivery blue-green of the iris is dramatic.  Set as it is in the middle of the expanse of damaged skin on one side of his face, the effect of that eye gives Sherlock a weirdly supernatural air.

 _As if he can see into your soul_ , John finds himself thinking.

Also disconcerting is Sherlock’s ability to look directly at things, as if he can still see.  John knows that it is simply an ability remaining from Sherlock’s lifetime of experience with vision, that he can unerringly direct his blind gaze at whatever he detects with his other senses just as he could back when he could see.  However, combined with the disturbing appearance of his face and his eyes, it is unnerving.

Sherlock does it now, turning his eyes to John where he stands in the kitchen doorway.

“I hate this, John,” he says, voice cracking.

John exhales hard and starts picking his way across the mess of shattered crockery scattered through the kitchen.  When he reaches Sherlock, he gently lowers himself to the floor beside his friend, shoulders brushing slightly.

“Yeah,” John says, “I know.”

“Everything is so difficult.  Every little thing requires so much thought and planning, so much careful intention.  I can’t forget, even for a second.  I never appreciated, before,” his voice breaks, and he swallows hard, “how very easy it was.”

“I can only imagine,” John answers, voice soft.  “For what it’s worth, I’ve been completely impressed by how you’re handling everything.’

Sherlock scoffs.  “What, like pouting and hiding in the flat and letting _Mycroft_ help me?”

“No, you berk.  Like learning Braille in two days and memorizing every detail of the flat and continuing to live your life as if nothing has changed.  I know you’ve needed to make some accommodations, but honestly Sherlock, you’ve accomplished an amazing amount.  You’ve only been out of the hospital for slightly more than a week, you know.”

“Yes, John, my ability to judge the passage of time has not been affected.”  Sherlock sounds more like himself, now, and John smiles.

“Look, I know it’s a cliché and I know patience is not one of your strengths, but adjusting to this is going to take time.  With everything you’ve done so far, you should feel proud.  You’ll just keep improving, I have no doubt.”  John hesitates, unsure of what he is about to suggest.  With a mental shrug, he decided to go for it.  “If you want, we could go out for a bit, leave the flat.  Maybe take a walk?”  He rolls his head to the side against the cabinet door to watch Sherlock’s reaction to this suggestion.

Sherlock stills, but his expression is contemplative rather than horrified, and John feels hopeful.  After a moment, though, he shakes his head softly.

“I can’t, John,” he says softly.  “I can’t stand it, being out in London like this.  Tapping along with a cane, inching forward in case I run into something or step off a curb, looking like a blind person.  I can’t.”

“I think you underestimate yourself, Sherlock,” John responds, doing his best to make his voice sound confident and sure.  “I was thinking that we could go out together the first few times, so you could hold my arm, but I doubt it will take very long for you to memorize the number of steps it takes to get around, at least in the streets closest to the flat.  And I’m sure you could navigate by the sounds of the city, once you get used to it.  You’re brilliant like that.”

“Well…” Sherlock says, the pale undamaged part of his face flushing a bit at John’s compliment, “I suppose we could try it.”

John smiles and leans back, resting against the cabinet.  His eyes sweep the kitchen again, taking in the mess.

“What were you doing in here, anyway?” he asks.

“Trying to make myself a cup of tea,” Sherlock answers, ducking his head a little and sounding embarrassed.

“Huh,” John says, grin widening.

“What?”

“It’s just that I didn’t know you could do that before,” John answers lightly.  Inside, he is holding his breath.  This is the first time he has tried to joke about it, and he does not know how Sherlock will respond.

“Of course I could, John,” Sherlock answers, but his tone is fond.  John nudges him with his shoulder, and suddenly they are both laughing, Sherlock rumbling out his deep baritone chuckle and John giving his typical embarrassing high-pitched giggle.

The laughter trails off and they sit companionably for a moment, side-by-side on the kitchen floor.  Then John looks over to where Sherlock is still keeping his hands tight around some object clutched to his chest.  It looks like a mug.

“What’s that, then?” John asks, tapping on one of Sherlock’s hands.

Slowly, Sherlock uncurls his fingers, revealing John’s RAMC mug.  John is confused, but waits silently for Sherlock’s explanation.

“It felt good, smashing things,” Sherlock says, waving a hand vaguely in the direction of the mess.  “I might have kept going until I ran out of dishes.  But then I realized that I was about to throw your mug, and I just… couldn’t.”  He shrugs

“Right,” John says.  He feels absurdly touched by this, but makes an effort to keep his tone light.  “Wouldn’t want me to have to hurt you, after all.”

“Yes, wouldn’t want that,” Sherlock answers, deadpan.  He offers the mug to John, who takes it gently and rests it on the floor beside them.

“Oh, wait,” John exclaims suddenly.  “I have a surprise for you!  I almost forgot.”  He jumps up off the floor and to the stairs, ascending two at a time.  He returns a moment later, clutching a folder of loose papers, to find Sherlock still sitting on the kitchen floor, head tipped back, eyes staring unseeing up toward the ceiling.  Despite the injury to his face, the strange otherworldly quality of his damaged eyes, or perhaps because of these things, John is briefly mesmerized, standing in the doorway.

_He is still so beautiful._

Shocked at himself, John shakes his head as if physically breaking free of something before he moves back to his place beside Sherlock.  He will examine that odd thought later.  Right now, he has a surprise to deliver.

Without thinking, he pulls one of Sherlock’s hands up and deposits the file in the upturned palm.  Sherlock closes his hand automatically, a skeptically curious expression on his face.

“What is it?”

“You read it and tell me,” John answers, smug.

Sherlock settles back and brings his other hand up, running his finger along the tab of the file folder.  After a moment, a look of realization moves across his face and he hurriedly flips to the first page of the file and quickly drags his fingertips across the Braille writing.  He draws in a sharp breath.

“This is… a case file?”

“Yep,” John answers happily, pleased with Sherlock’s reaction.  “Lestrade is having some cold cases translated into Braille for you to go over.  There is nothing he can do about the photographs, but I can do my best to describe them to you if you need me to.”

John is braced for Sherlock to make a sarcastic remark about the anticipated usefulness of John’s descriptions of crime scene photos.  Instead, he is answered by silence.  Concerned, he turns his head to look at Sherlock.

Sherlock is holding the closed file in both hands, clutching tight enough to bend the thick material in his fingers.  As John watches, he swallows hard once, twice.  Then he relaxes his grip and slowly, softly rests the file on the floor beside him.

“John…” Sherlock croaks.

Then Sherlock launches himself at John, wrapping his long arms around John’s torso below his armpits and burying his face in John’s chest.  He curls his long legs up, knees pressing into John’s side, squeezing tight.  There is something fundamentally childlike about the position, and John finds himself awash with the urge to protect Sherlock, to spare him as much pain as possible.

“Hey, hey, it’s OK,” John whispers into Sherlock’s hair.  He brings his arms up, wrapping one around Sherlock’s shoulders and rubbing his back with the other.  They remain in that position for a few moments, Sherlock snuggling his face into John’s chest while John softly rubs his back and breathes into his hair.  Sherlock’s hair smells lightly floral from his shampoo, and John finds himself drawing long breaths through his nose in an attempt to capture and catalog the smell.  Then Sherlock untangles his arms from around John and brings one hand up to rest against the side of John’s face.

Sherlock tips his face up where he is resting it against John’s chest and turns his eyes to John, one hand soft against the side of his face.  For a moment, as he stares down into Sherlock’s wide open eyes, John forgets that he cannot see.  John licks his lips, his breath coming faster as he looks back at Sherlock, entranced by his expression, and leans down, bringing himself closer to Sherlock’s face.

“John, this is… thank you,” Sherlock whispers softly, his breath puffing gently against John’s moist lips.

“You’re welcome,” John breaths out, barely audible.  His gaze drops to Sherlock’s mouth, and he leans his head just a little further down.

They remain in that position for a moment, mouths bare centimeters apart, before Sherlock lets his hand fall from the side of John’s face and rolls his head around, pushing his face into John’s chest again.

Blinking at the sudden loss of proximity, John lets his head fall back against the cabinet door behind him, absently stroking Sherlock’s back with one hand.  _What… what the hell was that?_  

Sherlock gives John one last squeeze and then leans away, clearing his throat.  He reaches out and deftly snags the case file from where it rests on the ground.  He flips it open, fingers sliding across the pages immediately.

John sits beside him, somewhat stunned, contemplating the moment they just shared.  He had nearly kissed him, had been right on the verge of it.  He still wanted to.  And what about Sherlock?  He had certainly seemed to share the sentiment, gazing up at John with that vulnerable expression, letting John lean in and… _Oh, Jesus._   Sherlock cannot see, could not see how John was looking at him.  John barely stops himself from slapping a hand to his forehead.

Sherlock had no idea what John was doing, or thinking about doing, just now.  He certainly knew that their faces were close together, but without being able to see John’s expression he would have no idea what was going through John’s mind.  He was just expressing his gratitude, a profound thankfulness which John doubts he has ever shown to anyone else, and here John was, thinking about kissing him.  _John, you complete and utter arse._   He had nearly taken advantage of his friend, his disability and his gratitude, to satisfy some fleeting physical desire that he still cannot comfortably explain to himself.  He instantly feels like a right bastard.

Not quite groaning, John pulls himself from Sherlock’s side and stands.  Sherlock shows no reaction, completely engrossed in reading the case file.

“I’m going to have a shower.  If you’re going to read that whole thing, you might want to go sit in a chair,” he says, unable to resist the urge to look after Sherlock’s physical wellbeing, regardless of the situation.  “I’ll make some tea when I get out.”  He knows he’ll get stuck cleaning up the mess, too, but he does not say anything.  It almost feels like an appropriate penance for his moment of indiscretion.

Sherlock grunts but does not move.  John shrugs and turns to go shower.  Maybe taking a moment alone to think will help him figure out why he reacted as he did to Sherlock, just now.  Somehow, he doubts it.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

Sherlock is standing in a sound-proofed chamber that he built (or had John assemble under his direction, more accurately) in the corner of his bedroom.  On a waist-high table in front of him is a neatly arranged row of short, slender twigs which he and John collected during their walks around the city.  As near as Sherlock can determine, the collection represents all of the species of trees that are commonly found in London, excluding the rare transplants that people sometimes import for decorative purposes, which typically do not survive long anyway.

Sherlock reaches out carefully and runs his fingers across the label beneath one branch.

“Alder,” he says aloud, his voice sounding oddly flat in the highly insulated space.  Then he picks up the corresponding twig, grips it firmly on either end, and snaps the twig in half.

The resulting cracking sound is quiet, muffled as the twig does not snap cleanly in half but instead splinters unevenly, leaving the two halves still connected by a long fibrous shaft of wood.  Sherlock adjusts his grip to one of the halves and snaps it again, and then repeats the procedure with the remaining half.  Satisfied, he carefully places the broken twig back behind its label.  He plans to burn it later.

He leans back on his stool and concentrates on the specific sound of the small branch breaking, the ripping, tearing sound of it, so distinct from the clean splintery break of pine wood.  He allows the sound to settle into its appropriate location his mind palace, carefully stored on an old gramophone record labeled “Alder”, sorted under the heading “Trees” and the subheading “Sound-Breaking” on an ever-expanding shelf of similar records.  The gramophone itself sits in front of the record shelf, and Sherlock knows that if he should choose to play the record, he can hear the sound of an alder branch breaking again any time he needs to.  Nearby there is another shelf labeled “Smell-Fresh” already containing a set of paper cards, much like the perfume samples found in magazines, and an empty shelf he has labeled “Smell-Burning”.

In the small chamber in his bedroom, Sherlock leans forward and feels the next label.

“Ash,” he says, picking up the next twig and snapping it three times before putting it back beside its label.  He sits back again and carefully files the sound in the correct location in his mind palace.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and steps out of the sound-proofed chamber.  He has found that the effort of cataloging sounds is more strenuous than it used to be, now that he does not have corresponding visual stimuli to hang the sounds from, and he needs to take occasional breaks in order to ensure accurate recall.  Also, spending too much time in the sound-proofed chamber bothers him after a while.  The lack of auditory stimuli makes him nervous, as dependent as he has become on his hearing in recent weeks.

Content to relax as he allows this recent new information to settle into his mind, Sherlock lies down across his bed on top of his duvet and folds his hands behind his head.  Listening carefully to the sounds floating through the building, he determines that John is not home, and Mrs. Hudson is in her flat watching crap telly and possibly also knitting.

In the perpetual darkness that is his life now, an odd and blurry blob floats across his field of vision.  Sherlock ignores it.  He is familiar with these phantom sights, random messages being fired off by his damaged optic nerves, had experienced them often in the hospital when the bandages and patches were still across his eyes.  He has not had one in a while, though.

His mind turns to John, to the activities the two of them have been engaged in over the past few weeks.  They have been going out on regular walks through the city, initially sticking close to 221B but over time, as Sherlock gained confidence and familiarity with the sounds of the city, their walks have been taking them further afield.  Some days they walk for hours at a time, John staying quiet unless Sherlock asks him a specific question or unless he feels the need to inform Sherlock of some detail he is not sure the detective has noticed, otherwise allowing Sherlock to turn his remaining senses to the task of memorizing the once-familiar city is a completely new way.

By now, Sherlock has learned the number of steps needed to reach the curb, the end of the block, the next street over.  He has memorized the sounds made by different types of vehicles, the fluttering of the pigeons in the small square in front of Tesco’s, the rumble of the underground beneath his feet.  Within a mile diameter of the flat he can now identify his specific location based on the frequency and type of traffic passing, the sound of the wind blowing between buildings, the feel of the sidewalks and streets beneath his feet, the odours floating out of nearby restaurants and shops.

He and John have also developed a subtle code of nonverbal cues by which John can communicate to Sherlock when he is about to make a mistake or do something foolish without being obvious.  By this time, Sherlock no longer needs to hold John’s arm when they are out on the streets.  He can stride confidently along beside his friend, sure in the knowledge that if he starts to get too far ahead, John will clear his throat in a specific pattern.  If he needs to stop because he is in danger of running into something, John will give a sharp, sudden cough.  If he needs to turn to the left, John will hum softly, and if he needs to turn to the right, John will yawn and sign.

This code gives Sherlock a feeling of independence that he values more than he can say.  He has always hated being dependent on anybody, never been comfortable giving up even the smallest amount of control, and since he lost his vision it feels like that is all he’s been doing.  But John, wonderful patient amazing John, has given him the help he needs without drawing attention to it, without even acknowledging it, as if he is not even aware that he has been helping Sherlock at all.  And in turn, Sherlock trusts John, takes what he is offering, and uses it to regain the damaged parts of himself, his independence.

And sometimes, even though he does not strictly need to, he holds John’s arm as they walk through London.  He tells himself it is because he is tired, because using his other senses to move through the city is exhausting.  But really, it is because sometimes he just wants to hold onto John and feel his warm comfortable acceptance, his peaceful calm support.  He holds John’s arm and just revels in the feel of it, paying no attention at all to what his senses tell him of the city around them.

The blurry blob drifts across his field of vision again, darting around oddly.  Annoyed and distracted, Sherlock rubs one hand across his eyes and rolls fitfully over on his bed.

John even got him working on cases again.  Sherlock had given it up, written it off, mentally resigned himself to the complete hell of living without his puzzles, when John had presented him with that first cold case.  The resultant joy he felt was so overwhelming, he had nearly wept into John’s robe.  And then, when he was trying to express his sincere gratitude, he had been taken with an urge to show John exactly how much he appreciated him by… by kissing him.  He had not, of course, but for a moment it was a close thing.  Sherlock finds himself puzzled by this urge; he has kissed before, of course, and is familiar with the desire, but it is not one he has experienced often in the past.  And certainly not as a result of… sentiment.  He can only hope that John wrote his strange behavior off as something else, maybe surprise or something.  Knowing how unobservant John is, Sherlock feels confident that his momentary lapse of reason has gone unnoticed.

Sherlock had successfully solved that first case file in an afternoon, reading the Braille text avidly, letting the information dance through his stimulus-starved mind.  John had done his best with the photos, and Sherlock was able to glean the information he needed through a series of carefully worded questions.  He was so grateful to John for getting him the case in the first place that he had worked hard to control his automatic reaction to John’s poor descriptions.  He was unable to stop all of his scoffs and disparaging remarks from sneaking out, but he kept them to a minimum.  John, for his part, did not seem to mind much, and had rewarded Sherlock’s successful deductions with a steady stream of praise for his genius.

After he had solved the first case, John had pulled out two more, and once those were done Sherlock had begun to receive a steady supply of Braille-translated cases from Lestrade.  Quickly, once Sherlock proved that his deductions could still be useful, Lestrade had begun to have notes from current cases types up in Braille – Sherlock hopes that Lestrade is making Donovan and Anderson do the typing, as unlikely as that is – and bringing Sherlock in again, at least in part, on active investigations.

He continues to work on the cases from home, when he is not taking long walks around the city with John or short walks around the neighborhood by himself.  He has hope that, once he gets a bit more proficient as maneuvering the city with his new limitations and gathering information about his environment using his new skills, Lestrade will allow him to come to crime scenes.  He feels confident that, even blind, he will be able to gain more information about most crimes than all of New Scotland Yard combined.

The annoying visual blob is stationary now, centered in the dark expanse that previously held all his visual input.  Bothered, Sherlock closes his eyes and brings a hand up to rub them.  The blob disappears as his eyes close, and he freezes, one hand halfway to his face.  Carefully, he opens his eyes.  The blob reappears.

Moving softly and gently, as if he might scare the blurry smear of grey away by making sudden movements, Sherlock rotates on his bed and sits up.  He carefully closes his left eye only.  Nothing happens.  Then he closes only his right eye, and the blob immediately disappears again.  He opens both eyes wide, and it reappears.  Then he moves his hand to cover his eyes, and again the blob is swallowed by the darkness.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock drops his hands to his lap.  He concentrates on the blob itself, attempting to discern any details contained in the fuzzy grey patch.  After concentrating for several minutes, he is feeling an ache in the muscles around his eyes, but he cannot make anything out.  It is just a blurry softening of the darkness, which would be barely noticeable except that he is so accustomed to total blackness that it stands out to him like a bolt of lightning.

Drawing a deep breath, he repeats his earlier experiments, testing to confirm that the anomaly is eye-specific and affected by light levels.  The results are the same.

Sherlock is repeating the procedures for the third time when he hears the door of the building opening, and John’s footsteps coming up the stairs, his tread heavier than usual.

He waits, nearly vibrating with impatience, until he is sure that John is in the flat, and then shouts out.

“John, come here!”

“Just a minute, Sherlock,” comes the faint reply from the kitchen.  Sherlock hears the refrigerator opening.  _Putting away groceries.  Not important._

“John, now!  I need you!”

“OK, OK, hang on,” John says.  Sherlock hears the refrigerator close, and moments later John is stepping into his bedroom.  “What do you need?”

“Shine a light in my eyes,” Sherlock says excitedly.

“Umm… what?  Why?”

“Get a torch and shine it in my eyes.  Don’t tell me when you do it, just do it,” Sherlock responds, impatient.

“Alright.”  John sounds puzzled.  Sherlock hears him leave the room and come back a few moments later.

There is a quiet click as John flicks on the torch.  A pause, and then the blob in Sherlock’s vision becomes slightly brighter, just barely tinged with yellow.

“You’re doing it now,” he says.  There is a gasp of indrawn breath from John, and then the blob fades back to its former greyness.

“You’ve stopped.”

“Sherlock, how…”  John sounds shocked, now.

“Do it again.  Tell me if I’m getting it right.”

John is silent.  Nothing changes for a long stretch of time, and Sherlock feels the hope inside him start to fade, replaced with fierce bitterness.  Then, suddenly, the blob is brighter again.

“Now.”

“Yes,” says John, breathless.

The blob fades, and then immediately brightens again.

“You stopped for a moment, and now you’re doing it again,” Sherlock says.

“Yes,” John answers again, almost a whisper.

“John,” Sherlock says, voice rough and catching in his throat, “I can see the light.  Just barely, only a tiny bit, and only in my right eye, but it’s _there,_ John.  I can see it!”

“Oh my God, Sherlock,” John sounds joyful, amazed.  “That’s so… that’s so wonderful.  I can’t… God, that’s so _wonderful_.”

Sherlock feels John’s arms close around him, and the blob in his vision goes dark once again as his eyes fall shut and he presses his face down into John’s neck.  He squeezes John hard as John hugs him back, and suddenly he is weeping, sobbing into John’s shirt, crying for the first time in many years, since well before the accident that took his vision, since he was a child.  He cannot stop, cannot help it.  There is a chance that he will see again, at least partially, and he has never been so happy in his life.  And all he can do now is clutch John close and weep his joy out onto John’s skin.

Dimly, he feels John gently stroking his back, petting him, hears John whispering soothing little murmurs into his hair as he cries.  In response, he just squeezes harder.

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

John leans back in his comfy brown arm chair, Union Jack pillow compressed gently behind him, and shakes the newspaper open to the sports section.  He has a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits beside him, a book set aside for reading once the paper is done, and no plans for the day except to relax and enjoy himself.

As if it is ever that easy.

As he is reading over the football scores, grumbling to himself about Chelsea’s poor performance recently, Sherlock comes bursting into the room, coat swirling around behind him in typical flamboyant fashion.  The coat is new, as his old one had been destroyed in the explosion, but it is of a similar style and just as suited to dramatics as its predecessor.  He snags his scarf from its hook by the door with barely a pause and drapes it around his throat.

Immediately, John casts the paper aside and moves to stand up.

“So, what’s on?” he asks as he starts moving to the door to grab his own coat.

“Oh, John!” Sherlock exclaims, as if he has just realized John is there, although John knows that is not possible with all the noise he was making with the newspaper.  “Nothing important, Molly just texted me.  She has a new corpse in, died from a rare Caribbean poison.  She’s saved me samples of the organs.  I’m just going to pick them up.”

“OK, give me a minute to find my shoes,” John answers absently, peering around at the floor.

“No need, John.  I’m just going to Bart’s and back.  Don’t trouble yourself.”

John looks up sharply at that, mouth opening to say something, but then he shuts it with a snap and shrugs, moving back to his chair with a sinking feeling in his chest.

“OK, have fun then,” he manages to say as he sits, and then Sherlock is gone, bounding down the stairs and out the door.  By himself.

John picks his paper up from there he dropped it on the floor and goes back to the sports pages, but he cannot concentrate.  After rereading the same line three times, he gives up, closing the paper and resting it against his chest as he leans his head against the back of the chair and stares up at the ceiling.

In the two weeks since Sherlock’s realization that he could detect light in his right eye, his vision has continued to improve.  Now, he can clearly make out varying levels of light and dark, and even some rough shapes, if they are large and crisp enough, if they are backlit by a light source, if they are dramatically colored.

He still has significant visual limitations.  He cannot make out fine details, or even most coarse details.  He certainly cannot read, and relies entirely on his Braille books and journals and notes.  He has trouble seeing colors unless they are very bright, and struggles to discriminate between different objects if they are similarly colored or too near each other.  His night vision is nonexistent, and in low light he is still effectively blind.

But the truth remains that he can see again, even if only just a bit.  It is fantastic, and by far a better outcome than John could have hoped for when he first heard the doctor’s prognosis.  John feels overjoyed for his friend.

And yet…

With the restoration of his eyesight, even partial and limited as it is, has come a significant increase in Sherlock’s independence and level of comfort.  He can move around the environment now with essentially no help from John.  He still relies primarily on his hearing and other senses to guide him through the city, but his vision is functional enough that he no longer requires John’s assistance for the little things, such as avoiding colliding with people on the sidewalk or refraining from stepping off of curbs unexpectedly.

And as a result, he has almost entirely stopped bringing John with him when he goes out.

John understands.  He does.  Sherlock was forced to rely on John for more than a month to accomplish every little thing.  Sherlock Holmes, who guards his independence more fiercely than anyone John has ever met, spent over a month in a position of near-total helplessness, and even though John was careful to always respect his abilities, the position must have chafed.  So now that he can, of course Sherlock is going to want to resume living as independently as possible.  As Sherlock would say, _obviously_.

But somehow, despite his happiness for his friend, despite his joy and delight that Sherlock is not doomed to a life of sightlessness and boredom, John finds himself experiencing momentary surges of disappointment when Sherlock goes dashing off without him.  He has become accustomed to being a major part of Sherlock’s life, and now he feels left out.

John feels guilty, feels like a giant selfish prat each time he is caught by one of these waves of sadness.  He should be feeling nothing but elation for Sherlock, who is successfully rebuilding his life in the face of a truly devastating injury.  But no matter how many times he tells himself that he is being an idiot, he cannot seem to help it.

For more than a month, John spent nearly every waking minute with Sherlock, or thinking about Sherlock, or doing things for Sherlock.  He was the only one allowed to see the genius at his most distraught, most vulnerable.  He was the one to whom that great man turned when he needed help, the only one that Sherlock trusted enough to deliver it.  For a month, John had been the single most important person in Sherlock’s life.

In his chair, John rubs his hands over his face, pressing hard, and chokes out a short bitter laugh.  _What kind of a person does that make me, then, for wanting it so much?_

He does not want Sherlock to be helpless.  He does not want him to be blind, or hurt, or distraught.  He truly does feel joy for his friend’s unexpected recovery, and would not wish it undone for anything in the world.

It’s just that, after being the most valuable thing in the world to Sherlock Holmes for a short period of time, John cannot imagine having to go back to how things used to be.  Not now that he knows what it’s like to be needed by the man so much.

He exhales hard, disappointment and guilt and desire mixing uncomfortably in his mind.  This is not productive, and he needs to stop thinking about it.  He leans forward again and picks the newspaper up off his chest, randomly selecting an article off of the front cover and starting to read it mid-paragraph in an attempt to distract himself from his counterproductive and pointless thoughts.

Minutes later, he is still staring at the same page of the paper, and he cannot remember a single word that he has read.  He sighs and tosses the paper on the floor before leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.

So, time to take a new approach then.  If he does not want Sherlock to be helpless again, what does he want?  What would satisfy this strange and unexpected desire that has awoken in him for Sherlock’s attention?  John closes his eyes and breathes deeply, evenly as he ponders this question.

He wants Sherlock to want him around, to look to him for help and opinions.  He wants Sherlock to seek his attention, to go out of his way to spend time with John, to desire his company.  He wants to spend hours wandering London with Sherlock, arms linked, comfortable both talking and just walking along in companionable silence.  He wants Sherlock to show him that beautiful expression of unrestrained joy when John surprises him with a gift or an idea.  He wants Sherlock to hug him when he is happy, to whisper “thank you” to him in that hushed, breathless little voice that he uses when he is truly and sincerely grateful.  He wants more moments like the one in the kitchen, when he sat staring into Sherlock’s eyes, feeling Sherlock’s breath on his skin…  _Oh holy hell._

And then, of course, John realized exactly what he really wants.  He wants Sherlock.  He wants Sherlock Holmes, and he wants Sherlock to want him back in the same way.  He wants the intimacy that they have developed over the past weeks of being so close together to continue, to blossom into a true relationship instead of the false pale imitation that they have been living thus far.

He’s in love with the bastard.

John sits up in his chair and takes a deep breath.

_Oh, I am so fucked._

-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-

In his cab on the way home from Bart’s, Sherlock sits clutching a small Styrofoam box containing a variety of samples of organ tissue and keeping his eyes turned toward the windows.  As the cab travels along the street, he attempts to identify as many of the objects they pass as possible.  People are easy, usually visible as dark humanoid blobs where they are silhouetted against the sky or against reflective shop windows.  Trees he can usually make out if they have leaves, but bare trees and very tall trees are difficult to distinguish from lamp posts and traffic signals.  He absolutely cannot tell the difference between shops and restaurants, unless they have a particularly garish sign or the cab stops long enough for him to use his other senses to discriminate the details.

He is enjoying himself immensely.

Being out of the flat, on his own, able to move freely through the city with no one’s help, is the most incredible and rewarding sensation he has ever experienced.  He knew that he hated being dependent, of course, but he had not realized how much he had resented the necessity of relying on someone until he no longer had to, even if that someone was John.  The feeling was so incredibly freeing that he nearly laughed out loud the first time he left the flat to travel any distance independently, when he had gone to tell Mycroft about his vision improvement.  And now he nearly laughs out loud again at the recollection of Mycroft, doing his best to appear calm and unperturbed but subtly betraying his extreme shock (through an unnecessarily firm tap of his umbrella against the ground) at seeing Sherlock standing calmly in the entrance to the Diogenes Club, all on his own.

Sherlock is so pleased with his newly regained independence that he looks for reasons to leave the flat, and sometimes goes out just to _be out_ , which is unlike him.  Not this time, of course, and his little bundle of organ meats can attest, but sometimes.

However much he is enjoying his freedom, though, he must admit to himself that he misses John’s company.  He continuously finds himself turning to make an observation or comment, only to remember that John is not with him, that he is out alone.  And sometimes he finds himself torn between wanting to revel in his independence and wanting to spend more time with John.

Which is silly.  John is always around.  He is at the flat most of the time Sherlock is home, and they often go out together, even now.  Sherlock spends most of his waking hours in John’s presence, and has since well before the accident.  He never craved John’s company before, and cannot figure out why he does now.  It cannot simply be the result of their forced companionship during his period of blindness, can it?  Certainly, John was around him almost every second, then, his companionship and warm affection a continuous supportive presence in Sherlock’s darkened world, but could such an emotional dependence develop in only a month?

It is illogical and ridiculous, and Sherlock has decided to ignore it.  It is likely that his emotional attachment to John is the result of some kind of psychological phenomenon engendered by his dependence on him, and it will fade with time as Sherlock remains independent and free.  When he sometimes finds himself thinking that he does not want it to fade, that he would rather have John’s company and the overwhelming feeling of satisfaction and completeness that it brings than his freedom, he pushes the thought down and locks it away.  It is unacceptable.

Besides which, Sherlock is under no delusions that he is as pleasant or desirable to be around as John.  John must be heartily sick of his company by now.

The cab arrives at 221 Baker Street.  Sherlock pays, identifying the correct bills based on their location in his wallet as he absolutely does not have the visual acuity yet to make out different denominations of money, and hops out.  He carries the Styrofoam cooler carelessly under one arm as he enters the building and climbs the stairs to the flat.

Inside, he can dimly make out the form of John, still sitting in his chair.  He is sitting very still, looking forward, and does not appear to have anything in his hands.  Sherlock takes a moment to confirm this observation by listening intently, but if John is holding anything, it is not a book or a newspaper or anything else that might make a rustling noise.  He is evidently just sitting there, doing nothing.  Sherlock proceeds to take off his coat and scarf and hang them on the coat rack before carrying his cooler into the kitchen.

“So, no problems getting everything?” John asks suddenly from his place on the chair.  His voice sounds rough, a little off.

“No, why would there be?” Sherlock responds, bristling slightly under the suggestion that he might not be capable of completing his errand on his own.

“Well, I know that Molly gets in trouble sometimes for giving you samples,” John answers, sounding more like himself.  Sherlock feels mollified that John was not worried about his abilities, and then is annoyed with himself for caring.  In revenge, he deliberately slides the little cooler into the refrigerator onto one of the shelves labeled “Food Only”, smiling to himself as he does so.

He moves back out to the living room and flops down onto the couch.  As far as he can tell, John is still just sitting in his chair, doing nothing.  It’s odd, and he turns his head to look more fully at John with his one partially functioning eye, as if he can deduce anything from him that way.

John shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny and clears his throat as if he has something to say, but just then Sherlock’s mobile rings.  He pulls it out without making any attempt to check the caller ID – pointless, far too small for him to see – and answers it with his usual brusque “Sherlock Holmes”.

It’s Lestrade, inviting Sherlock to a case.  An actual crime scene, fresh and undisturbed, or at least as undisturbed as it can be with the idiots from forensics traipsing all over the place.  Not a cold case, not a file with photos, but an actual crime scene.  Sherlock responds blandly that he might be available to come down, and then hangs up the phone and literally shouts with joy.

“It’s a case, John!  An actual case!  A crime scene, with a dead body and everything!”

“Fantastic, Sherlock,” John says, and his voice is sounding shaky and strange again.

“What’s the matter with you?” Sherlock asks as he throws his coat around his shoulders, his own spirits made buoyant by the invitation from Lestrade.

“Nothing… nothing’s wrong.  Should I get my coat, then?”  There is something hesitant in the question, but Sherlock does not take the time to analyze John’s state of mind.  All of a sudden he is too busy figuring out his own.

His immediate instinct is to tell John that of course he should come along.  It’s a case after all, and John usually accompanies him on cases.  His help has proven invaluable time and time again, even before, even when Sherlock could see clearly.  And he just wants John around, wants to be near him, to listen to him praise Sherlock’s deductions and compliment his skills.

However, he is also still possessed with the desire to prove himself, to demonstrate that he is fully functional and as capable as he ever was, that he needs no one’s help.  And he fears the strength of his desire to bring John with him, for reasons he has not fully explored.

“Not necessary,” he finally answers.  “It sounds like a simple one.  I should have no trouble taking care of it on my own.”

“Right.  Well done,” John says, and this time there is no mistaking the emotion in his voice.  It is anger.  He stands up quickly and marches past Sherlock into the kitchen.  Sherlock hears the sound of a mug being banged onto the countertop with unnecessary force, followed by the tick of the kettle being switched on.

Instead of leaving, heading out to the crime scene, Sherlock follows John into the kitchen.

“You’re angry with me,” Sherlock says, leaning in the doorway.

“Right again.  Nice job, that,” John responds, each syllable bitten off in a sharp voice.

“Why?”

John turns, regarding Sherlock from across the room.  Sherlock cannot make out his face, of course, but his posture is ramrod straight and rigid, and Sherlock has seen John angry enough times in the past to have no trouble imagining his expression right now.  He waits, arching an eyebrow in a way that he knows John finds infuriating, his arms folded across his chest.

“Is this it, then?” John finally says, after watching him for several silent moments.

“Is this what?”  Sherlock is genuinely confused by the question.

“You’re all better now, yeah?  So you’ll just be going off on your own, solving cases and doing experiments, just like before?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, still confused.  “Exactly.  I am finally myself again, John.  I can do things by myself.  I don’t need your help anymore.”

John just looks at him silently.  Then, as Sherlock watches through his one hazy eye, John’s posture relaxes, sags, until he is slumped back against the edge of the counter.  When he responds, his voice is soft and ragged.

“Yes.  Right.  Of course.”  He turns his back to Sherlock and busies himself making tea.  “Tell Lestrade I say hi.”

“John, what’s the matter?  I don’t understand.  I thought you’d be happy for me to get my eyesight back.”  Sherlock is upset, bothered by John’s attitude.  _Would he rather I had stayed blind?_

“Oh Sherlock, of course I’m happy for you.  God, I’m so happy, I can’t even tell you.” John turns around to deliver this comment, holding something _tea mug, obviously_ in one hand.  He leans against the counter again.

“Then what’s the problem?  Why are you mad?”

John takes in a slow breath, lets it out.  “It’s just that I… I… Oh, God, this is hard to say.”  He blows into his cup and then takes a slurping sip of the tea.  Apparently restored, he tries again.  “It was nice, you know, being important to you.  I’m overjoyed that you got your eyesight back and I wouldn’t change that for anything, but I guess I just miss how close we were getting.”  John takes another deep breath.  “It makes me sad that you don’t need me anymore.”

John’s face is tilted downward by then end of his speech, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze, and his breathing is slightly accelerated.  _Worried._

Sherlock takes a cautious step forward, into the kitchen, which he finds himself irrationally thinking of as “John’s space”.  And when has he ever cared about someone’s space?

“John, you’re still important to me,” he says carefully.

John barks out a skeptical little laugh and does not respond.  Sherlock moves a little bit further into the kitchen.

“We are still close.  I’ve never been as close to anybody as I am to you, even before the accident.  You know that.”

John sighs.  “Yeah, I know that.”  Then, in a quieter voice, “and I guess that will have to be enough.”

“Wait, what?”  Sherlock peers at John’s face, squinting as if it will help.  If he could only see John’s expression, maybe he could tell what he is thinking.

“Nothing, Sherlock.  Nevermind.  It’s not important.” John turns away again, putting his mug down on the counter.  “Go ahead, Lestrade is waiting.  I’ll get something for dinner, just in case you’re hungry later.”  He sounds so _defeated_ , and Sherlock is overcome with a desire to do something to fix it, to make John feel better.

And what did he mean about it “being enough”?

Sherlock opens his mouth to ask again, when suddenly a thought occurs to him.  Maybe John feels the same way he does, that strange sense of satisfaction in his company, and that’s what he is missing? 

Images start to flash through his mind, pictures of John, of the two of them.  Not memories, because of course he could not see at the time, but images nonetheless, pictures as if from the perspective of an outside observer watching them.

John, sitting at his bedside in the hospital.  John, cleaning their flat, carefully arranging all of Sherlock’s notes and papers in anticipation of his return.  John, buying Braille books and surprising Sherlock with them.  John, secretly arranging to have case files translated into Braille as a surprise.  He and John, walking through London for hours and hours, arm-in-arm.  He and John, sitting on the kitchen floor surrounded by broken dishes, while John comforted him and called him brilliant.  John, patiently and selflessly spending all of his time just _being there_ , available if Sherlock needed him, doing whatever Sherlock asked, giving him whatever he needed, never asking for anything in return.  John, holding him while he wept for joy and celebrating with him when his vision started to return.

All of this flashes through his mind in an instant, and then Sherlock know, _knows_ exactly what is wrong with John.  And what is wrong with him, too.  He understands why he craves John’s company, why he feels complete when John is with him, and why John is hurt when he goes off by himself.

Confidently, he steps forward until he is standing right beside John, who immediately turns toward him.

“Sherlock, what-“ John starts, but that is as far as he gets before Sherlock brings both of his hands up to gently cup John’s face.  He looks down, barely able to make out the dark ovals of John’s eyes through his distorted vision, but it is enough.  He knows John can see into his eyes, anyway, and that is what is really important now.

“You love me,” he says softly.  He can see John’s eyes widen, feel as John tries to shake his head within the confines of Sherlock’s hands.

“I-“ John starts again, but Sherlock shushes him.

“I love you, too.”

John goes still, his eyes wide open as he looks back up into Sherlock’s face.  His lips part and he breaths out a soft “oh” of surprise.

Slowly, giving John time to see what he is doing, to protest or move away, Sherlock lowers his face toward John’s.  John does not move, and as Sherlock gets closer he sees John’s eyes flutter shut.  Then their lips meet, and Sherlock’s own eyes fall closed as well, dropping him once again into darkness.

Sherlock kisses John gently, using his hands on John’s jaw to tilt his face to the side and bring their mouths more fully into contact.  Then John lets out a little pleading grunt and his hands come up to caress Sherlock’s face, one finding its way into his still-too-short hair.  John pulls Sherlock’s face tight against his and traces his tongue along the seam of Sherlock’s lips.  With a little shiver, Sherlock allows his lips to part.

John’s tongue slips into his mouth, caressing his, and Sherlock is immediately awash in overwhelming sensations.  The slow, slick slide of it is amazing, incredible, the most intensely sensuous thing Sherlock has ever felt.  He squeezes his eyes more tightly closed and drops his hands, wrapping one arm around John’s shoulders and holding on tight, bringing the other hand to rest on John’s chest as their tongues continue to twist and dance inside his mouth.

They kiss, and go on kissing, for a timeless time, still standing there in the kitchen.  And when finally, finally they draw apart, still locked in an embrace and breathing heavily against each other’s mouths, Sherlock has no idea how much time has passed.  All he can do is cling to John and pant while he slowly comes back to himself.

After several minutes, John leans back slightly and looks him in the eye.

“Yes, I do love you.  You git,” he says, grinning.

Sherlock throws back his head and laughs.

“Excellent!  Now then, get your coat.  We have a case!”  He squeezes John’s shoulders one more time and then releases him, stepping back and spinning on his heel to dash out of the room.  Behind him he hears John laughing as he grabs his coat from the rack and follows Sherlock down the stairs and out into the city.


End file.
